


When the tether broke

by Sekiei



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:50:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sekiei/pseuds/Sekiei
Summary: In magic-imbued Eos, the Astrals are all-powerful; their words are gospel, their prophecies higher truths. But this time around, the pawns might want a say in the Gods' game.





	

**Author's Note:**

>   * Happy Birthday, Gladio! <3
>   * Not graphic. Some romance / touching / kissing. Some violence and injuries.
>   * All my thanks and love to [@1000needles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1000Needles/pseuds/1000Needles) for her fantastic job encouraging me and editing this.
>   * Comments always very much appreciated and welcome. ^___^
> 


 

 _The King walks tall amongst echoing shadows  
His beloved heart filled with healing light  
His indomitable strength wild as beast’s  
His argute mind ablaze with clear flames  
Seeking the lost on a path to untold powers_  
_Slumber will pass and night will be no more._

 _Dawn will uncover the cruel will of the Gods,_  
_Forged in man’s resignation and surrender._

 

  
*

 

_  
‘We already have a prophecy,’ the King said. ‘One bestowed upon us by the Gods themselves.’  
‘The Gods,’ the Witch spat with disdain. ‘The Gods are petty and cruel. The Gods solve their squabbles by peddling your lives. They mean nothing to them, why should their words mean anything to you?’  
‘Even if what you say is true, we cannot go against their will.’  
’You can change the balance of power that governs their game.’  
‘Stop talking in riddles, woman. If you have something to say, say it.’  
‘The magic of yore, Sire, it’s not the Gods’. It is but the world’s. They tore it apart and swallowed it to come into existence, but shreds of it remain. Free, wild and unfettered. Not gone, only dormant and ripe for the taking. Light might fight the dark, Your Majesty, but it doesn’t cure the sick.’  
‘Even if what you say is true, what use would it be?’  
‘That’s for the ones who will wield it to find out. You only have to ensure it is put in their hands in time.’  
‘You’re an old fool. Why should we trust you?’  
‘Old food to old fool, Sire, when the time comes, what will your blood have left to lose?’_

 

  
*

 

  
When they get sent off to Altissia, Ignis is feeling rather sullen, but he bears the enthusiasm of their little party with his usual grace. He’s careful and makes sure they can’t tell his brooding silence from his usual reserve. It’s comforting. It means they leave him alone and don’t ask questions.  
There are a few reasons behind his mood. First, he understands more about the politics of the day than any of his friends, and while he cannot know what will come to pass, his knowledge and intuition paint a grim and foreboding picture he is powerless to ignore. He keeps it to himself; there’s little point in alarming the others now.

  
The second reason is more trivial. Being on the road with three loud, untidy and soon-to-be smelly men is likely to be both entertaining and exhausting. In Insomnia, and despite a packed work schedule, he could usually find a couple of hours a day to rest away from perpetual human agitation in his bare studio flat. No such luck now. But it matters little since this is not a vacation. It’s not even the stag do trip they’ve been sold.  
Ignis is observant enough that he could tell King Regis’s words were no goodbye. It was a farewell. He had to stop himself from snapping at Noctis to talk to his father properly. But His Majesty would not have been grateful for the complications his meddling would have brought. Noct is sharp if he cares to apply himself. It is better for all of them if he doesn’t for now.  
He’d probably order Ignis to turn the car around. It’s strange to not know what he’d do if this were to happen. Strange and unpleasant. Ignis has always got every eventuality planned out; and yet, none of the options offering themselves are appealing. The best he can do is put as much distance between Insomnia and their party as fast as possible. Soon, turning back won’t be a possibility he’ll have to worry about. His foot gets heavy on the gas. Just a touch. Still safe. But already well above the speed limit.  
Setting a bad driving example for Noctis pales in comparison to getting them all murdered by the Empire.

Cold sweat along his spine makes him shiver. Why did his mind go there? _Murdered by the Empire._ Is that what’s awaiting the people they’ve left behind? Surely, they wouldn’t… There are other options, less revolting or cruel. But Niflheim is all this and more.  
He eases off the gas to take a bend, using the curve to gain some speed back almost immediately. He wants to turn around. He wants to stop the car and tell them of the grim, bloody images in his mind.  
It would be stupid to go back and die with everyone else. Stupid and right.

 _‘… merely that you remain at his side,’_ the King asked.

There is no doubt in Ignis’s mind in this moment that this is the last order Regis will ever give them. And he made it clear he didn’t want them to turn back. So they will obey and go on. The road stretches long and straight, barely visible in the distance under the dust rising from the Leide desert plains. It seems an apt setting for their current predicament, heading unwavering into a shrouded future. Ignis’s foot gets a bit heavier still. The Regalia flies over the asphalt. It wouldn’t take much to get it to take off. For a moment, he wishes that could happen. And with it, the freedom of finding simple, direct solutions to complex problems.

A hand falls on Ignis’s shoulder. Large and firm. Gladiolus’s. He looks up, catches his eyes - sharp, scorching copper - in the rear-view mirror and braces himself for a comment on his rather aggressive driving. But Gladio skirts around the issue.

‘Maybe we should take a break at the next stop. We’ve been driving a while.’

Ignis narrows his eyes at him in a silent injunction not to push it.

‘Not yet,’ he says, easing off the accelerator to improve his chances of Gladiolus heeding him. ‘It’s the first day, we might as well get some road behind us. Give me an Ebony, will you?’

There’re shuffling sounds behind him for a few seconds before a can taps his arm lightly.

‘Thanks,’ he says, opening it and taking a swig.

It’s lukewarm, but still tastes like relief. He hopes the shops along the way will carry his favourite brand, that he won’t run out before they get to Altissia. Once there, he’s set. If anyone has mastered the art of coffee, it’s Accordo. Giving up the real thing and going back to Lucis’s poor approximation of caffeine once they head back will be the hard part.

‘Prompto, do me a favour, find us something to listen to.’  
‘You got it.’

Ignis lets him fiddle with the radio, skimming through frequencies, until he gets to a lively waltz.

‘Nice, leave it on.’

The simplicity of the piece helps calm his mind. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. He counts silently in his head, visualising the steps. Trying to teach Noct the basics of ballroom dancing had been one of Ignis’s rare failures. His Illustrious Highness’ sense of rhythm leaves much to be desired. Unfortunately. Ignis rather enjoys the old dances of the Lucian court.

Another ten miles pass by. Noct and Prompto are chattering away, something about the King’s Knight levelling system. Ignis doesn’t pay them much attention. The music has changed to a long, sad piece he knows well. Unfinished according to classic rules. And yet, a complete and beautiful creation the composer refused to lengthen for the sake of conventions. He thinks of the King again. Is this what he felt? That this was the right time and prolonging their struggle would only lead them to an uglier end? He still hopes he’ll be proven wrong.  
He hears Gladiolus turning the pages of his book. From time to time, he can feel the weight of his gaze on the back of his head. Ignis sternly reminds himself that it’s too easy - what with the brawn, and the temper, and the jokes - to forget how smart and perceptive Gladio is. They have enough on their plate without Ignis causing him worry over so little as a few unsettled thoughts.

 

  
*

 

  
For the first few days, it actually gets easier. Driving on the open road is freeing. Prompto and Noctis are in a good mood, easily falling back into a dynamic created over multiple school trips and holiday breaks throughout the years. Making sure their needs are met is not so different out here than it was in Insomnia. There’s still a whiff of routine to it, the tasks to carry out familiar and repetitive. Organising meals. Inventorying their consumables. Rationing their curatives. Planning for the next shopping trip. Finding a launderette when they need one. Making sure weapons are kept in perfect working order.  
He’s mostly making sure they share the tasks in an efficient manner. Except for cooking, obviously. That’s his game, and it’s non-negotiable; no matter how much Gladio raves on about cup noodles.

Ignis likes the nights. More often than not, they find a campground and sleep under the tent. They take turns to stand guard. The runes keep them safe enough from wild beasts and daemons but the imperial forces are a threat to be reckoned with and they have no intention of being caught with their literal pants down. Those few hours alone under the starry sky, pacing, thinking about the complex but unproven leaps his mind insists on, pondering ways to improve or tweak recipes he hasn’t perfected yet, are precious. He keeps his brooding at bay. So far they haven’t heard any news of importance. He always makes sure to check the headlines first, before the others get the chance, just in case. But until now, it has proven futile.

So he lets his mind wander further and sets himself goals, tasks that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. Harden Noctis; as much as he resents the idea, the Prince needs it. Let Prompto make his own mistake; as endearing as his naivety often is, it still makes him an easy target. And Gladiolus… well, getting Gladiolus to learn a thing or two about personal space would be a good place to start.  
It’s ironic that the vast, open wildlands are where Gladiolus’s presence would become overwhelming. But despite the immensity of the desert surrounding them, the space they share is - to say the least - cramped. Gladio’s bulk has always been impressive but it becomes downright ridiculous when stuffed in a tent, a rickety caravan or the Regalia. Whichever way Ignis turns, Gladiolus is there occupying a good portion of his field of vision. There are only so many times he can inadvertently meet his eyes before it becomes risible and somewhat awkward. Especially when Gladiolus just stares back and smirks at him.

By the end of the first week, Ignis’s had enough and decides to stop at a motel for the night. They can afford it and they’ll have a marginally roomier living space for a few hours. At least, that’s the plan. Of course, Ignis’s strategic talents decide to betray him.  
A simple shower is his downfall. The washing facilities are communal but the shower cubicles have individual doors and an unlimited hot water supply. Such decadence is more than he could ask for. He stands unmoving under the water for a truly unreasonable amount of time, head bowed, thoughts washing away with the grime of too many days in the sands. By the time he turns off the water, he feels groggy and ready for a few blessed hours of uninterrupted sleep. He stumbles out of the shower and straight into a wall of hard, unforgiving muscle.

‘Careful,’ Gladiolus says, steadying Ignis with a hand on his arm. ‘So that’s where you were. I was starting to wonder if you’d already given up and run off on us.’  
‘Just taking advantage of the hot water.’  
‘Smart as always.’

They’re too close, both bare-chested; Ignis in but a towel, Gladiolus in loose sleeping pants. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before, but the proximity is new. Ignis’s eyes fall on the tattoo; up close it’s more detailed and intricate than he’d imagined, each feather a marvel of small precise barbules coming together with gorgeous harmony.

‘You like it?’

Ignis’s head shoots up and his eyes go wide. Focused on the details, he didn’t realise how close he’d come, his hand hovering over the ink on impulse.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he says, bringing his arm back to his side.  
‘You can touch it if you want. I don’t mind.’

Gladio’s voice is low and warm with seductive undertones that are not lost on Ignis. He’s heard plenty, during the years, about Gladiolus’s all-encompassing appetites. But he’d hoped the man would have better judgement than that.

‘I’ve seen enough. It’s a visual art anyway,’ he says, his voice as neutral as he can make it.  
‘Some other time then,’ Gladiolus says in the same flirty tone with a wink.  
‘Where are the others?’ Ignis asks, bluntly changing the topic.  
‘In the restaurant, playing Justice Monsters Five. Going to join them?’  
‘No, I’m going to sleep. Make sure they don’t stay up too late. It’d be a shame to waste away the one night we have real beds.’  
‘We waste them by sleeping if you ask me.’  
‘You would say that. Please take care of your urges some place else.’  
‘I’m headed to the shower, aren’t I?’  
‘And that’s already more than I care to know about. Good night, Gladio.’  
‘Good night, Iggy.’

Gladio’s laughter follows him as he grabs the clothes he’s folded on a bench and exits the room. By the time he’s lying in bed, he’s starting to regret to not have taken advantage of the shower to relieve some tension as well. But he’d just been too tired, and he wouldn’t have thought of it if not for Gladiolus’s meddling. Thinking of the man and what he’s probably getting up to at that exact moment is remarkably unhelpful.  
Ignis tosses. He’s hardly made of stone and Gladio making a pass at him took him by surprise. He resents being caught off guard - he’s supposed to be prepared for all eventualities, after all - and the fact that yes, the man is absurdly hot, only feeds his anger and irritation. What is Gladiolus even thinking? It’s only been a few days, surely he can wait until they get to Lestallum to find an opportunity for some private dalliance. The circumstances hardly lend themselves to straying into impropriety; and an ill-advised fling could impair their ability to fulfil their duty. That’s not a risk Ignis is prepared to take, although Gladiolus doesn’t seem to mind.

In the end, that’s why Ignis is best left in charge of strategic decision-making.

 

  
*

 

  
Another couple of days pass and nothing changes. Ignis puts Gladio’s misstep down to horniness and poor judgement. He doesn’t dwell on it. Frankly, they have more important concerns, especially when the Regalia breaks down. The repairs are costly and they decide to go hunting to earn some cash. They’re not nearly as broke as Ignis let them believe, but he’d rather avoid a significant dent in their travelling budget so early on.  
Camping without the car is far less comfortable, the gear they can bring limited and heavy. All in all, it’s their first real set-back. But the mood stays upbeat, with incisive, playful banter started during the slow push of the car through the unforgiving Leide’s heat and continuing as they hunt reapertails and sabertusks. They see a giant bennu from afar once, but the beast leaves them alone. It’s just as well, it might have been too much for them to chew on.  
Despite the precariousness of their living conditions, it feels good to be out and about together; they fall into an easy, friendly rhythm. And while Ignis still likes his solitude at night, the days are full of jokes, laughter and fighting that becomes more synchronised with each encounter. By moments, he even forgets the dramatic events that must be unfolding as they gallivant happily through the empty plains.

It’s another night like all the others. Ignis’s phone vibrates softly by his head. Two a.m. His turn to stand guard. He gets up as silently as he can, grabs his glasses, gloves and jacket. The nights are surprisingly cold in the desert, in stark contrast with the dry burning heat of the days.  
When he gets out of the tent, Gladiolus is standing at the verge of the camping mound, staring out into the dark; his tall, beautifully shaped silhouette sharp against the stars. Ignis drops by the fire, cross-legged so he can lean forward and let his hands soak up the lovely warmth of the flames.

‘Everything okay?’ he asks quietly to not disturb the others.  
‘Hey,’ Gladio greets him softly in return. ‘Yeah. Fine. The daemons are on the prowl tonight. An iron giant came close to the edge of the light earlier. It was massive. But I fed the fire and it didn’t try to come any closer.’  
‘No Nifs?’  
‘Not so far.’

Gladiolus sits by the campfire too, just close enough to keep their conversation muted. He pours tea in canteen mugs and hands him one.

‘Thanks. Not going to sleep?’  
‘In a minute. It’s so cold, I’ll sleep better if I get something warm in me first.’

Ignis hums softly in answer. He sets the mug by his side and goes to pull on his gloves. But Gladio shuffles closer, leans in and unceremoniously plucks the leather out of his fingers. He takes advantage of Ignis’s surprise to trap his hand in a firm yet careful grip, his thumb stroking the knuckles.

‘What’re you doing?’

Gladiolus chuckles.

‘It’s not like you, Iggy, to ask questions you know the answer to.’  
‘Fine,’ Ignis says, watching their joined hands with a frown. ‘Why are you doing this?’  
‘Because I have to take advantage since you’re always wearing your damn gloves. You have such beautiful fingers and I never get to see them. And because you ignore me unless I get obvious.’  
‘Maybe you should take a hint. This is a terrible idea.’  
‘Why’s that?’

Ignis sighs, pulls his hand away. Gladiolus lets him go.

‘I get it. You’re used to getting whatever you need when you need it. Yet, right now, you have none of your usual outlets and it’s frustrating you. I’m flattered I’m your choice given the circumstances, but it doesn’t make it a good idea. Keep it in your pants, we’ll get to Lestallum soon enough. We’ll give you a night off once we make it there.’

Ignis expects Gladiolus to laugh his rebuttal off and to drop the topic as he did last time. But instead of lascivious sniggering, he gets a scowl.

‘Is that what you think this is? That I want to get my rocks off?’  
‘What else?’  
‘Shiva have mercy. How oblivious can you be?’  
‘About what?’  
‘Iggy. I’m no saint, but I’m not trying to get in your pants.’

Ignis raises one very dubitative eyebrow in answer and stares.

‘Okay, fine. Not gonna lie, eventually I’d like to get there. But that’s not what this is. I want this to be something real. I’m just asking for a chance to try and see where it takes us.’

Now, Ignis is confused. This is the second time in less than a week that Gladiolus has caught him off guard and it makes him feel unbalanced and exposed. Vulnerable. He doesn’t like it one bit.

‘Forgive my scepticism, but it is rather convenient that you decided this is something you want as soon as we got stuck together on a road trip.’  
‘Yeah. I guess it probably seems that way. I…’ Gladio pauses for a moment as if looking for the right words. ‘Look, this isn’t something new. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. But I could never tell, back in Insomnia, if you’d be interested or not. You kept yourself so closed off, there was no way in. And I was a coward, I was worried my advances would be unwelcome and ruin our friendship.’  
‘What changed?’  
‘You.’  
‘Me?’  
‘You’re probably not going to like me saying this, Iggy. But no matter how composed you are, even you can’t stay completely unreadable when you’re stuck in six square meters with three other people. There’s bound to be some slips and cracks, some giveaway. Particularly if someone’s paying attention. So don’t get upset, but I’ve seen how you look at me. I know you’re at least somewhat interested.’

It’s Ignis’s turn to stay silent. He stares in the fire, grabs a branch and pokes at the embers to make sparks swirl and take flight in the night wind.

‘What I want matters little given the circumstances,’ he finally says. ‘And for the record, I’m not exactly clear on that myself.’  
‘What have the circumstances got to do with anything?’  
‘Don’t be thick. Our duties have never been more crucial than they are now. We don’t know what lies ahead, but it’s not going to be a soft bed of roses. We should focus on Noctis. Anything else is a distraction. And we can’t afford to get sidetracked, not when we’re the only ones left he can rely on.’  
‘I disagree. We’re not MTs, Iggy.’  
‘What? Of course, we’re not… what are you…’  
‘As you say, things are going to get worse from now on, so shouldn’t we get support and comfort where we can find it? Wouldn’t we be better able to fulfil our duties if we knew someone had our back? Not just physically. Wouldn’t it make us more resilient? Why do you have to see it as a distraction and a weakness? Everybody needs some kind of connection and support or they start to fray at the seams, Iggy. Even you. This could make us stronger.’  
‘You make it sound so simple. What if it doesn’t work?’  
‘We’re both responsible adults, we’ll deal with it. But it’s worth the risk. You said it yourself, we don’t know where this is going or how long it will go on for, why should we have to be alone when we’re already stuck together? Especially when neither of us is opposed to the idea, in theory at least.’

Ignis doesn’t answer the question. He gestures instead.

‘Give me my gloves back.’

He pulls them on when Gladiolus complies. Their eyes meet squarely when he raises his head again.

‘Go to sleep, Gladio. I need to think.’

 

  
*

 

 

For the next few days, Gladiolus gives Ignis space. He doesn’t bring up the topic, he doesn’t crowd him. But once in a while, they catch each other’s eyes, and he sends him a small, private smile that hints at the existence of something intimate and unspoken lingering between them. Ignis hasn’t given him an answer, and yet, it feels like the connection is already there, waiting on him.

The news he’s been dreading falls before he can make up his mind. They’re staying at the hotel in Galdin Quay that night. It’s more comfort than they’ve experienced since leaving Insomnia, but Ignis still exits the room at the break of dawn out of habit. He paces the length of the pier for short of an hour, waiting for the van bringing the day’s newspaper. The air is crisp and the sky beautifully clear. Yet, to his eyes it seems farcical, like a poorly adjusted mask stuck on Eos’s crying face.  
When the newsboy finally comes, Ignis only needs one look at him to know the wait is over. He was right. Again. No matter how desperately he wanted to be wrong. Just once. Just this once. The boy is supposed to deliver his load directly to the hotel; but this morning, he pauses, nods grimly and hands a paper over to Ignis for a few gils.

It’s as bad as Ignis expected.

He doesn’t stall. There’s little point. It won’t change what he has to do. He goes back to the room, hands Gladio the newspaper when he reaches out for it. There’s grief in his eyes, but no surprise. He expected it too. Not with the same sharp insight Ignis did, but enough.

‘We had no way of knowing,’ Ignis says to control Noct’s temper.  
‘What? Knowing what?’  
‘That the signing was last night. That Insomnia…’

He’s almost glad when Noctis interrupts him. It wasn’t quite a lie, but his words were not truthful either. To feel guilt for an intuition he has little control over is not rational, but Ignis can’t help it. Noctis is alive because they left, he reminds himself. It was worth it.  
Gladiolus surprises him then, suggesting they go back to the city to confirm the news. It’s a risky move, an unnecessary one. But as Ignis opens his mouth to protest, he sees Gladio silently tilting his head in Noct’s direction. He gets it then. This is not about truth or lies. It’s about what Noctis needs to move on and start healing. He needs certitude and they can give him that. It feels cruel to undertake a journey for no other reason than to rob him of the little hope he has left. But both Noct’s and their own duties demand that they face the truth head on.

‘Might not be safe for us there,’ Ignis says, not in opposition but to impress the gravity of their situation on his companions.

As expected, Noctis is not deterred by the danger. A few minutes to pack, and they head back towards Insomnia. Reaching it is surprisingly easy. They have to fight their way through once they get to the blockade on the edge of the city, but none of the forces there present a real threat. What happens next is not surprising. The Empire has declared Noctis and Luna dead and are leading a full invasion of Lucis.  
It’s not a war, or a cease-fire anymore. It’s the conquest of a fallen kingdom. They all know it, Noctis included.

By the time they get back to Hammerhead, Cor has moved on. Ignis watches as Cid not too gently tells Noctis the truth; that the King knew what would happen, that he sent his son away to protect him. It’s better for Noct to know, but seeing his anger and grief still hurts. Their next step is decided for them, they need to reach the Marshal in the Royal Tomb. But it’s late and the sky has started to dim. They won’t get far that night.

‘Let’s go camp,’ Ignis says.

The others look at him, surprised. There’s a caravan right there, near Takka’s restaurant. It makes no sense to go wandering in the wilderness at this time. They can crash down right now, they won’t have to stand guard.  
But Gladio nods slowly.

‘Yeah. Let’s.’

Noct and Prompto exchange a look, but they don’t protest when they all get back in the car. There’s a campground within walking distance, but Ignis wants to take them out of sight from the rest area. He hopes he’s making the right call. They’re all hurting. A place full of light and laughter and warm food might change their mind for a while, but it will also prevent them from grieving as they must. Their little tent is the closest approximation of a home they’ve got. Tonight, it’s where they need to be. Together.

Dinner is a morose affair. Noctis barely touches his food and goes lie down without a word. They let him be, arrange the guards between the three of them to let him sleep. That’s the least they can do. Ignis takes first watch.  
He sits there, listening to daemons slithering around them in the desert, just out of sight. Mostly, he tries to keep his mind empty by staring at dancing shadows across softly glowing runes. When they start to shorten, he pushes more wood in the fire. Hours pass slowly, until finally Prompto stumbles out of the tent. His eyes look glassy. He probably hadn’t been asleep for long when his alarm got him up.

Ignis gets them tea and biscuits and sits with him for a while. He doubts sleep will humour him even if he lies down, so he might as well make a productive use of his time. He coaxes Prompto into talking, lets him slowly fill the silence, encouraging him when needed. It’s not long before he sees him rub at his tired eyes with the back of his hand. Ignis pretends not to notice how bright they are.  
As often, Prompto’s pain is a reflection of his affections. He talks a lot about how Noctis must be feeling, how he hopes Iris made it out, how unfair it was for his friends to lose so much in such a short time. He doesn’t pause or dwell on what he has lost himself, the city he knew, the friends he left behind. Ignis waits until his voice starts breaking, from exhaustion and suppressed tears.  
This is a good time to leave him alone. He got him as far as he could, but what’s to come will be more comfortable without a witness.

‘Noct is lucky to have you with him, Prompto. We all are.’  
‘There’s nothing I can do for him. Feel so useless.’  
‘Just stay with him. It’s more than enough.’  
‘It doesn’t seem like it is. But I guess I can do that.’  
‘Better than anyone.’

Crawling inside the tent and getting into the sleeping bag without falling over and waking everyone is a feat of dexterity. Thankfully, it’s a practiced one. Finally horizontal, Ignis keeps himself propped up on an elbow, staring at Noctis’s back. The Prince is huddled against the fabric wall, his breathing too deliberate for him to be asleep. His shoulders shake soundlessly by moments. Ignis hesitates, but that’s why he brought them there. So they could grieve. He leaves Noct to his mourning and turns the other way to give him privacy.

He lies, unmoving, the hardness of the stone barely disguised by the thin padding of his sleeping bag. He feels empty, drained. Second-guessing his every move as he’s had to do all day is exhausting. He shifts about, tries to get comfortable, but sleep mocks him. Grief and anger circle trying to take a hold, he feels them. It’d be better to let them in. They’ll only strike harder if he rejects them now. But he feels numb, trapped out of reach of his own feelings. As always, his instinct is to watch over the others, so they can be as vulnerable as they need. He’ll be okay if they are. Or so he wants to believe. When he opens his eyes again, enough light is coming through the tent door for Gladiolus’s pupils to flare, coruscant embers fixing him in the darkness.  
It’s all it takes for the words to drift back to the forefront of Ignis’s thoughts.

_Everybody needs some kind of connection and support or they start to fray at the seams, Iggy. Even you._

For the first time, he wonders if maybe Gladiolus understands something he’s struggling to grasp. Maybe his bright, organic mind could be the perfect counterweight to Ignis’s overly analytical one. He takes a deep breath, lets it go slowly, controlling the exhale until his lungs burn. He dearly hopes he’s not making a mistake. But he’s done wavering. He takes off his gloves.  
Their sleeping bags are so close, Ignis barely has to reach out when he silently offers his hand. Gladio’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t miss a beat. He cradles Ignis’s palm in his own, brushes his lips against the skin before pressing it to his face and closing his eyes. Wetness rolls over Ignis’s fingertips. Their sorrow comes together, coalescing, melting into one cloud of dark relief that chokes him. Ignis lets his fingers stroke Gladiolus’s cheek and turns his head into the pillow. The fabric drinks his own tears.

When he wakes up, daylight is flooding the tent. Gladiolus is nowhere to be seen. A single black feather rests in the palm of his hand.

 

  
*

 

  
They go see Cor to hear what he has to say. Noctis gets an old King’s weapon. Seeing him stabbed by a sword made of light is disquieting. Ignis feels Gladiolus tensing by his side, the Shield instincts demanding he put himself between his King and the threat. The experience is far from pleasant, but Noct holds his head high, brave and regal. For a brief moment, he looks like the King of prophecies and Ignis wants to bend the knee. Then it passes and the Prince is back to being a moody, wounded young man.

They stay in Leide. Ignis leaves the decision to move on up to Noctis, a crafty way of making sure they don’t leave before they’re ready. He could have made the call and driven their party all the way to Lestallum by now, but it feels right to let them come to terms with what happened.  
Besides, once the dust settles, it should be easier to obtain information on the next challenges they’ll have to face. Imperial forces are gathering around Insomnia and patrols are frequent but not overly inquisitive. Ignis is pretty sure they’re looking for them further down the road, trusting that they’re trying to run rather than spend their time leisurely hunting in the desert. In the end, that unpredictability will play in their favour. Or so he hopes.

They’re hunting mesmenirs when Ignis notices Gladiolus stretching his shoulder with a grimace. With the weight of his broadsword and how much he’s been swinging it lately, it’s not surprising but still concerning. The last thing they need is injuries to add to their recent misfortune.  
They go collect their bounty from Takka and decide to spend the night in Hammerhead. Prompto and Noctis are soon off to find Cindy. Gladiolus is sitting in a plastic chair in front of the caravan watching the sun go down, his hand rubbing his shoulder blade under the black fabric of his tank top.

‘Did you hurt yourself?’  
‘No. It’s a bit tight and it itches, but it’s fine.’  
‘If it was, it wouldn’t bother you,’ Ignis says, with a stern stare. ‘Let me see.’

Gladio looks at him with the same intensity he always seems to display of late. The scrutiny is uncomfortable, making Ignis self-conscious as he remembers how his friend - boyfriend? lover? he’s not sure what to call him considering they’ve done little else but hold hands in silence in the dark of night so far - admitted to watching him in an effort to puzzle out his thoughts and behaviour. But he can hardly complain about a look. He waits until Gladiolus pulls the tank top over his head.

‘You know, if you want me to take my clothes off, all you’ve got to do is ask. No need to look for an excuse.’

Ignis ignores him. He runs his fingers over the muscle; there are a few knots caught in the strands but nothing of concern. Gladio is unbelievably warm though. He’s always known the man ran hot, but this is beyond normal. The skin is flushed and angry, the tattooed lines standing out, fathomless onyx against crimson flesh. It’s subtle but Ignis can feel them in relief under his fingertips. Gladiolus has had that tattoo for years, it can’t be the source of the problem. Besides, it looks inflamed, but not infected. It makes no sense. But if poison or venom got into the deeper tissues, then maybe they could create a reaction… Ignis’s knowledge of first aid is extensive, but more complex medical problems are out of his league.

‘How’re you feeling?’  
‘What? I told you. I’m fine.’  
‘It looks inflamed. I’ll put some potion on it, but wear your jacket tomorrow, it’ll protect you from the sun.’  
‘Oh come on, it’s too warm for that.’  
‘Don’t be a child. You can’t let this get any worse.’

Ignis takes his time working the potion into the skin. It’s rather nice and since he has nothing pressing to get to, he might as well enjoy it. He kneads the muscles deeper than he needs to, slow and thorough. Gladiolus hangs his head and stays silent, perfectly motionless under his hands. It’s still daylight in the middle of a busy rest stop; yet, the experience feels more intimate than it has any business being.  
Night has fallen by the time Ignis’s done. The flask of potion is empty. His hands slide off glistening skin. Gladio catches one. He’s raised his head and is staring at Ignis, still intense but different, more heated. He brings the hand up to his lips, slow and deliberate, and brushes a kiss to the inside of Ignis’s wrist.

‘Thanks, Iggy.’  
‘You’re welcome.’

Ignis’s skin tingles in ways the potion can’t explain. Gladio holds onto his hand and Ignis doesn’t pull it back. The air is calm around them and silence stretches, charged but comfortable. The sound of Noctis’s voice and Prompto’s laughter breaks the spell.

The night passes like all others, but the caravan bunk-beds keep Gladiolus away from him, and Ignis’s hand feels empty. He takes the feather out of his pack and stares at it. He doesn’t know what manner of creature it’s from, even less why he kept it. As a memento of sorts. Probably. He doesn’t dwell on his motivations, but he holds the feather in his hand - a soft, ghostly reminder of a connection he’s still struggling to understand - as his mind slips away.

 

  
*

 

  
They haven’t had such a good night’s sleep for a while. The morning comes with beautiful clear skies and promises of good hunting. They’re drowsy from oversleeping but refreshed. Ignis finishes waking up thanks to some hot magic in a can. Yes, Noct, Ebony is just that good.  
When he gets back to the caravan, Gladio is almost done packing their sleeping bags. His jacket is thrown on the table, ready to be put on before he heads out. But Ignis’s satisfaction that he heeded his advice is cut short when he gets closer. The inflammation has spread across Gladiolus’s back and down his arms, the skin marbled with bruises and a collection of thin zigzagging cuts where blood has pearled to the surface and clotted in a peppering of dark, flaking dust. It’s angrier, but still clean, with no sign of infection, no pus or excessive swelling. Ignis tests the temperature of the skin with the back of his hand. It burns hotter than the previous evening.

‘The potion didn’t help. We need to get you to a doctor.’  
‘Don’t be dramatic,’ Gladio replies, shaking his head. ‘I feel fine.’  
‘It should be looking better, not worse.’  
‘Give it some time. I’ll cover it today, we can have another look tonight.’  
‘What if you stop feeling fine?’  
‘I’ll let you know. Look, Noct was smiling this morning. Takka said he knows where we can hunt some coeurls and he’s really looking forward to it. I haven’t seen him this enthusiastic in days. Let’s not ruin it.’

Ignis sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. He doesn’t like this one bit. Sure, Gladiolus seems his usual self, but whatever is going on doesn’t sit right with him. The potion should at least have helped. But Gladio also has a point; worrying Noct when he’s just starting to come out of his shell again would be counterproductive.

‘Damn it, Iggy.’

Ignis looks up, frowns. Without his glasses, Gladio’s outline is mildly blurred, his features harder to read.

‘What?’  
‘I know it’s neither the time nor the place, but you’ve got any idea how kissable you look when you get all thoughtful like that?’

Ignis tries for a dismissive snort, pretends to clean his glasses and puts them back on to give himself countenance. But Gladiolus is not laughing. He steps closer, a hand on Ignis’s cheek, thumb brushing over his lips.

‘I’m trying to be patient. I really am. But Shiva, you’re making it hard.’

Gladio is staring at him, serious and intent, not realising he just served himself up on a platter. Ignis can’t let it pass.

‘Oh am I?’ he says with a sly smile. ‘How hard exactly?’

Gladiolus blinks at him for an instant until he realises what he’s just said and… Yes. Ignis has made Gladiolus Amicitia blush. Just a touch but it’s still pretty entertaining. It’s not enough to make him shy away from a straight answer, however.

‘Pretty damn hard, if you must know. You should let me show you sometime.’  
‘I shall consider it. But we need to get a move on, unless you want Noct’s mood to sour.’  
‘Can’t make His Highness wait, can we?’  
‘Precisely. But one day, Gladio, no more. If you’re no better tonight, I will drag you to the nearest physician myself.’  
‘That’s fair.’

 

  
*

 

  
Predictably, it doesn’t take long for Ignis to regret his decision. A couple of hours on the trail of what they suspect is a bonded couple of coeurls, diving deeper into the desert, and it becomes clear that - no matter what he pretends - Gladiolus is far from fine. His step is too metronomic, sinking deep into the sand, deprived of the striking lightness he usually moves with despite his bulk. He hasn’t cracked a joke since they left the car behind, despite Prompto’s antics and Noct’s cynical repartees. His palm rubs at his shoulder whenever he thinks no-one’s looking.  
When he trips and nearly falls over, trying to dismiss his stumbling with a quip about traitorous sands, Ignis has had enough. He wanted to avoid confronting him in front of their friends, but this is getting ridiculous and dangerous. Before he can intervene, however, Prompto shouts.

‘Watch out! They’ve circled around us!’  
‘Bastards,’ Noctis says, sounding way too pleased.

A coeurl snarls softly at them from atop a boulder. The large feline has flattened its body against the rock, ready to pounce. The other one is nowhere to be seen but it must be hiding nearby.  
Clear light flashes as they draw their weapons. Gladio rests the tip of his broadsword in the sand, but otherwise stands at the ready. When the second coeurl jumps out from behind the nearest sand dune, he pivots on his heels to face it, strong and steady. The conversation Ignis planned on having must wait.

The thrill of the hunt takes over. The coeurls are fast and agile. Ignis has to concentrate to match them. One step forward, throw a dagger, back handspring, side-slide to avoid the beast’s teeth, slashing it as it bounces a hair’s breadth away. The dance is precise, calculated; an endless deadly ballet they must win at all costs.  
Ignis’s mind is serene, empty of anything but the fight; he feels good, in control, all his strategic talents awake and electric. He loves danger and the adrenaline rush that comes with it more than he probably should, but the feeling of blood pumping hard through veins, of life being set ablaze by hovering demise, is exhilarating.  
The struggle pushes them deeper in the desert into a maze of petrified shrubs and tall, precariously hanging crags. Ignis and one of the coeurls circle each other, using the dead trunks as cover. A well-placed feint and he lures the beast into leaping just where he’s waiting for it. He jumps too, accurately getting the angle to plunge his dagger into its throat. Mephitic breath chokes him as jaws snap shut, inches from his own face. But the monster collapses, blood draining fast, covering the dune in grim arabesques. Focused on his own battle, Ignis sees the third coeurl too late. The others are oblivious. He shouts a warning but he’s too far to intervene. He can only watch as the beast lunges and, with deadly accuracy, collides with Noctis mid-warp sending him tumbling across the sand at unforgiving speed, until his body meets the rock and comes to a stop with an ugly, crushing sound.

‘Noct!’

Ignis starts running. Noctis is crumpled like a rag doll against the tilting rock face. Even from a distance away, his stillness is alarming.  
The coeurl turns around from where it landed. Its snarl gets carried by the wind as it stalks closer toward its unconscious victim. There’s less than twenty meters between them. Ignis knows it’s hopeless. He’s too far. He throws the dagger anyway, out of despair. It makes a soft thud as it falls short and plunges into the sand, delicate like an expiring sigh. There’s no air in Ignis’s lungs. He keeps running.

The gunshot resounds clear and loud to his right. Prompto’s aim is true. The coeurl lets out a pitiful whine, stills for an instant and shakes its head. But it doesn’t stop. It’s almost on Noctis now. Its prey can’t escape and the coeurl knows it. It pounces for the killing blow with a growl.

A toll bell echoes through the sands as the monster meets a metal wall headfirst.

‘Oh no, you don’t. Fucking bastard. Gotta go through me first.’

Gladiolus is on one knee in front of Noctis, both arms braced upwards to hold his shield and push the coeurl away. The beast falls back a couple of steps. It snarls again, loud and angry at being denied. Gladiolus’s shield disappears, replaced by his broadsword. He holds it with two hands in front of him, ready to strike, but he doesn’t try to get to his feet.

Another gunshot tears through the air. The coeurl cries again and somersaults on the spot. This time when it lands, its hindquarters give way under its weight, its abdomen soaked with blood. Ignis uses the respite to send his dagger through the beast’s eye socket and right into its brain. It crumbles without a sound.

Ignis doesn’t pause. In another two steps, he’s by Noctis’s side. He ignores his own laboured breathing, the painful stitch in his flank. His fingers follow the Prince’s spine, grateful to find no instability there. He turns Noctis on to his back gently, lets relief wash over him when cloudy blue eyes blink up at him. The gaze is unfocused, crowned by locks of hair clumped together with blood where the Prince’s head hit the rock. His left arm is bent at an unnatural angle, shattered in several pieces.

‘Don’t move,’ Ignis says. ‘You have a concussion. Do you remember what happened?’

Noctis tries to speak, coughs a few times with a pained wince before he manages to force the words out.

‘I kicked ass?’  
‘Up to a point, yes.’

A potion later and Ignis helps Noctis sit up against the crag, careful not to jostle his broken limb. Prompto is hovering anxiously behind them, grimacing sympathetically each time Noct lets out a muffled complaint, but making sure not to be in the way.

‘Prompto, can you find me some straight thin branches? We need to stabilise his arm.’  
‘Just give me an elixir.’ Noct tries and fails to wave dismissively with his good hand. ‘I’ll be fine.’  
‘I’m not giving you anything else until that concussion of yours resolves. Magic and cerebral trauma are a risky combination. You know that when your head isn’t all mush.’

Noct grumbles but he’s in no state to argue. Prompto starts towards the petrified shrubs with the determination of a man on a critical mission. Ignis keeps cataloguing the cuts and bruises on Noctis’s skin, some of them already fading thanks to the potion. Overall, it could have been a lot worse. The Prince’s gaze is still hazy, staring behind him in the distance. Or so Ignis thinks until Noctis’s next words, uttered in a slow, thick voice.

‘What’s wrong with Gladio?’  
‘What?’

Ignis turns around. He hadn’t wondered, expecting Gladiolus to stand guard over them as he always did. Instead, the man’s sitting crossed-leg in the sand, back and head bowed. Fresh rivulets of blood trickle down his arms.

‘Shit. Gladio, did the coeurl get you? You should have said something.’  
‘It didn’t. I’m…’

His eyes meet Ignis’s and he doesn’t finish his sentence. He’s not fine. They both know it. Ignis comes closer, makes him remove his jacket. His whole back and shoulders are a mess of raw flesh, covered in fresh and clotted blood. He looks like he’s been flayed. It’s much worse than it’d been only a few hours earlier. But without cleaning the wounds, making head or tail of what’s happening is impossible. It will have to wait until they get to a place with running water.

Ignis’s mind runs fast. He hands Gladio a potion, waits for him to drink it and tells him to put his jacket back on. It’s little protection, but it’s better than nothing. Gladiolus’s features are still as stone, and nearly as grey, as he obeys. Ignis doesn’t have the leisure to feel sorry for him. They need to get back to the car, then to somewhere safe. The Prairie Outpost is close, but Cor and his subordinates might be out scouting for all they know. Heading back to Hammerhead is their best option. They need support and protection that Cindy and Cid will be happy to provide. It’s a ways away, but he and Prompto can still drive. They have several hours of daylight left. It will work if they get a move on. Their current position is too vulnerable.

‘Can you walk?’  
‘Yeah, I’ll be okay,’ Gladiolus says, before adding in a low, apologetic tone. ‘I don’t think I can carry Noct though.’

Ignis nods, knowing how much it must have cost Gladio to admit that.

‘Look after yourself. Prompto and I can manage.’  
‘I can walk too,’ Noct says behind them. His voice is still comically croaky, but none of them feel like laughing.

A few minutes spent bandaging Noctis’s arm with the improvised splints Prompto brought back and they set off. Slowly and painfully, their injured party makes its way back through the desert. Ignis’s mind snipes at him.

_How could he let things get that bad? Pisspoor excuse for a strategist he’d been that day._

He shuts it down. He’ll have time for self-pity later, for now he needs to concentrate. He leaves Prompto to serve as Noct’s crutch, Gladio to stare at his feet as he painstakingly takes step after step in the deep traitorous sand, and circles around them, daggers drawn. They’re a prime target for a monster on the prowl but he won’t let them be surprised again.  
Gladio stumbles once, falls to his knees, his face contorted with sudden, fierce pain. He clenches his jaw, doesn’t let out a sound. Ignis gives him a few seconds before taking his arm and hauling him back to his feet. He waits until he’s balanced enough to stand on his own.

‘I need you to keep walking,’ he says softly to not alarm the others.  
‘I know. The worst’s passed now, I can keep going.’

Gladiolus must keep moving on his own. Dragging him around the desert if he was to collapse is not an option, not with his size and their current predicament.

They make slow but steady progress during the first half hour, and Ignis lets himself believe that their luck is finally turning.

They’re tracing their steps back, crossing a vast plateau, the edge of a deep narrow canyon a few hundred yards to their left. They can just make out the emaciated silhouettes of the dark tall trees that cover the desert near the parking spot where they left the car. They’re still a good couple of miles away but the sight is like fresh water on a parched throat. They can make it.

Ignis hears the engine just as Gladio growls behind them.

‘Overhead.’  
‘On the ground. Don’t move.’

Ignis and Prompto help Noctis down. Gladiolus’s already laying on his stomach a few meters away. Their ordeal has left them covered in a fine crust of dry sand, and since the imperial transport is flying high, they might just have a shot at fading away into the monotone landscape.  
The troop carrier buzzes slowly along the empty sky. They wait. The desert is still, shimmering with heat in the distance. Ignis hopes the trees are no mirage. A soft whistle falls from above. At first, it’s reminiscent of the playful sound of small firework rockets. But as it reaches the ground it explodes in a loud, violent cacophony that shakes the earth around them. Sand lifts into the air, making it hard to see and breathe. Ignis hands Noct his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose with.

‘Are they shooting at us?’ Prompto asks. His voice quavers with fear but he holds himself perfectly still.  
‘Their aim sucks.’

Noctis sounds a bit more like himself. That’s something.

‘I don’t think they’ve seen us,’ Ignis says.  
‘So what? They have something against cacti? Too much greenery, is that it?’  
‘My best guess is they’re doing some kind of weapon test.’  
‘Assholes.’  
‘At least, His Smartass Highness is feeling better.’

Gladiolus’s voice is mocking, resonating deep within the sand cloud surrounding them.

Another explosion. Closer this time. The ground shakes violently. If they weren’t already lying on their stomachs, it’s doubtful they would have kept their footing.

‘Let’s keep moving. They’ve given us some cover, we might as well use it.’

Ignis leads them towards the edge of the cliff. They need some landmark to follow in the sand-laden atmosphere. Going astray at this point would be yet another setback they can do without. They cover another half mile, having to pause and brace themselves each time a new detonation makes the landscape quiver. The carrier is drifting away slowly. Ignis is finally allowing himself to relax - minutely - when the ground opens up without warning under his feet.

‘Watch out!’ Gladiolus shouts behind him before a hand shoves him forwards and sends him headfirst into a bunch of tumbleweeds.

It takes a moment for Ignis to extirpate himself from the grip of the overly affectionate plant and figure out what happened. Prompto and Noctis are looking at him with wide eyes a few meters away. He’s standing on the edge of a pit that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, eating into the wall of the canyon. A sinkhole. Probably brought on by the Niflheim craft bombing. Ignis has to scramble backwards when pockets of sand detach and fall into the crater, widening it.

‘Stay back,’ he says to the others, before calling out. ‘Gladio! You’re down there?’

The silence that follows is chilling. It stretches, only disturbed by gusts of wind, mocking and wicked. Ignis can hear his own heart pounding. But finally, some faint spluttering can be heard, followed by a distant but clear answer.

‘Yeah. Got kind of buried there for a while.’

Ignis can just about see him, halfway down the slope, still stuck in sand to mid-thigh.

‘Can you climb up?’  
‘I can try.’

Gladiolus barely makes it a couple of meters before the whole flank of the sink hole gives way, dragging him down in a torrent of sand. Ignis has to jump back again to not be swallowed too. Gladio shouts up what he already knows.

‘This isn’t going to work. It’s too unstable.’  
‘Are you hurt?’  
‘A few scrapes. Nothing more.’

Nothing worse than before, Ignis translates wordlessly.

‘You keep going. I’ll find a way around through the canyon.’

He looks for options. If they hadn’t been injured, they could all have jumped down. But considering Noct’s condition, it’s out of the question. Either he or Prompto could still go, but it’d leave the Prince with very little protection.

‘Don’t even think about it, Iggy. I’ll be fine, you get Noct somewhere safe.’

He knows Gladio’s right. He would say the same thing in his position. Noctis is the priority.

‘We’re not leaving him,’ the Prince says, slower than usual to catch on. He’s got an arm around Prompto’s shoulders to hold himself upright. His pallor is sickly rather than aristocratic. It’s not a good look on him.  
‘We don’t have a choice.’  
‘We can’t split up.’  
‘What else can we do?’  
‘Go down with him.’  
‘You’re barely standing as it is.’  
‘I’m fine.’  
‘You’re not,’ Prompto says softly, hoisting him up a bit higher to demonstrate what he means. The Prince sways dangerously in his hold.

Ignis is grateful for the support.

‘Don’t be a brat, Noct!’ Gladio shouts again from below them. ‘Go back to Hammerhead. I’ll find you there.’  
‘You have at least another four hours of daylight. Should be enough to get back to the plains. Be careful,’ Ignis adds. ‘Call if you get in trouble.’  
‘Sure. You too.’

Signal is sketchy at best in the desert. Down in the canyon, it’s probably non-existent. But pointing that fact out would serve little purpose, except emphasise the precariousness of their situation.  
They start moving again. Ignis tries not to look when Gladio starts walking in the opposite direction, his silhouette small and indistinct in the smouldering heat. He tells himself it’s the distance that makes his step appear heavy and unsteady. He knows it’s a lie.

When they finally get back to the car after another hour fighting through burning sand and thorny trees, Ignis doesn’t turn towards Hammerhead but takes the direction of the Prairie Outpost. Noct is dozing off, laying on his side on the backseat, but Prompto doesn’t miss the change of heading.

‘We’re going to go get Gladio?’ he asks, managing to sound both worried and relieved at once.  
‘ _We_ are not. But we have to do something.’

Ignis is making it up as he goes at this point. His next step depends on who they’ll find at the outpost. Hopefully, Cor will be there.

He isn’t. But Monica is and she’s happy to help in any way she can. Ignis knows the Marshal trusts her and that’s good enough for him. He gets the map out of the glovebox and unfolds it before figuring out where they left Gladiolus. The plan forms in his head within minutes. It’s far from ideal and contains many unknowns but it’s the best he’s got.

‘Prompto,’ he says. ‘I want you to drive the Regalia and Noct back to Hammerhead. Monica will come with you as an escort. Once there, get Cid to send for a doctor to look at Noctis. Only give him an hi-elixir if they say it’s okay.’  
‘I can do that.’ Prompto nods, with a severe look that seems strangely out of place on his youthful face. ‘What about you?’  
‘I’ll rent a couple of chocobos and go find Gladio. The way through the canyon is fairly straightforward, he can’t have wandered far. And the birds should help me find him.’

He’d nearly asked Monica to go instead so he could stay with Noctis, but Gladiolus’s strange condition worries him. He doesn’t know what it might be like by now. If it’s become worse, Gladio might need some support to make it back. It’ll be hard enough for Ignis to help him move without being crushed under the weight.

All he can do now is stick to the plan and hope that, this time, he made the right call.

 

  
*

 

  
They’ve avoided using chocobos until now for fear the rental books might be monitored by the Empire and any large party investigated. But Ignis is alone right now, nothing about him should suggest he has a link to the missing Prince.  
The beasts he gets are used to the desert, with wide padded feet to keep them steady on sand and help them bear the heat. If he’s lucky he has three hours of light left, just enough to find Gladio and get back as long as nothing goes wrong.

He gets to the entrance of the ravine system easily enough. The main, large defile should lead him straight to where they parted ways. Ignis checks his phone. Predictably, he’s lost all signal. He can only hope he’ll run into Gladiolus.

Forty minutes later, at an intersection between the main gorge and a small gully, he spots blood on the ground, a light spray like one made by a nosebleed. He gets off the chocobo and looks around. The few inches of sand that wind through the rock are disturbed by vague tracks, wildlife obviously walking up and down the ravine with some regularity. Ignis is no tracker - that’s Gladio’s gig - and he can’t make head or tail of a few imprecise depressions and scuff marks. He doesn’t even know if the blood is human. It might just be a wild beast dragging its kill somewhere secluded. After a few minutes of introspection, he gets back on the chocobo, the second bird still tied to his saddle, and continues up the canyon.  
He doesn’t go far. He’s barely covered a hundred yards when he spots the bloody handprint on the rock face. It’s slipped down, making it look misshaped and unnaturally large, but it’s definitely human; and from the way the fingers curled around a sharp asperity of the stone, heading in the direction Ignis just came from.

He retraces his steps, feeling out of his element. The sensation is unfamiliar, the indecision that accompanies it even more so. Whoever came down that way - and it has to be Gladiolus - should have crossed his path. Unless he decided to head down the small ravine he spotted earlier… but why go that way? None of the reasons Ignis comes up with are reassuring. Maybe he couldn’t keep going and was looking for shelter. Or he was attacked.

Ignis stays on the ground this time. Pulling the chocobos behind him, he heads down the gully. It’s narrow but the birds are docile and follow him without complaining. He soon spots some more drops of blood. Gladio definitely went down that way. Ignis feels a pang of twisted gratitude for his injuries. Without the blood trail, he would have been walking away.

The passage widens to two arm’s width after a few minutes. Ignis finds a black feather half-buried in the sand. He wouldn’t have noticed it, if it didn’t look exactly the same as the one he’s been keeping in the inner pocket of his jacket. He blames turning into a sentimental idiot on the recent loss they’ve suffered and refuses to examine his own motivations further.  
Another five hundred yards and Ignis’s arm gets yanked back when the chocobos come to a standstill with a spooked cry and refuse to go any further. He can see the cause of their distress just in front of him, disturbed sand, cradling more blood soaking a myriad of black, broken feathers of various sizes. A bennu, maybe? Did Gladiolus get attacked?  
There’s no body. But Ignis spots deep drag marks stretching out through the sand, obvious even to his untrained eye. Something heavy got dragged - or dragged itself - further down the defile. He tries to coax the chocobos into following him but the birds stubbornly hold their ground.  
The sun has long disappeared behind the walls of stones that stand tall around him. The sky will soon start to darken. Time is running short and Ignis can’t hesitate. He grabs his pack and lets the birds go. They might still be around and come when called if he can find Gladio fast. Otherwise, the chocobos’ll return to their stables and they’ll have to make it back on their own.

Ignis shoulders the heavy pack. He wants to avoid a night outside away from a haven at all costs, but that doesn’t mean he’s not ready for it. He follows the tracks until the gully opens on a large crater filled with crags of various sizes. The stony ground swallows the drag marks; he loses the trail. The area is too vast to investigate fully in the time he has left. He needs to narrow it down.  
Ignis drops to his stomach at the end of the spoor, tries to figure out where one would head for shelter if weakened. He almost misses the cave entrance halfway up the side of the crater, but he knows Gladiolus would have noticed it right away. The man’s survival skills are legendary. Hopefully, the cavern is empty of wildlife. Ignis calls on his daggers just in case.

A spot of blood at the entrance is an almost welcome sight. He’s still on the trail, but Ignis doesn’t drop his guard. The sky has started to darken, the sun dipping low behind the edge of the crater. The cave is a dark, bottomless pit. He takes another step under the stone roof.

‘Stay back!’

The voice is loud, ferocious. An age-old, powerful instinct orders Ignis to freeze where he stands. He can see burning eyes trained on him deep within the cave. At first, he thinks there’s a beast there, together with Gladiolus, that this is the reason he’s been ordered to stop. But he can see just enough of the contours of a face, of a familiar haircut to recognise this is no beast. Ignis doesn’t know what’s going on but a primal fear rings in his ears. He won’t push forward until he finds out more. He takes off his pack and sits cross-legged on the floor.

‘I saw the blood,’ he says softly. ‘I brought potions and elixirs.’

A bark of humourless laughter answers him.

‘Keep them. They’re not helping.’  
‘Can I see?’  
‘No. Go away.’

The stern, cold tone sounds strangely out of place in Gladiolus’s mouth.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Ignis replies quietly.  
‘It’s going to get dark.’  
‘I know.’  
‘Noct and Prompto?’  
‘They’re safe. Worry about yourself.’  
‘I’m worried about you. I’ll be fine. You need to find shelter.’  
‘I’m not leaving you here.’  
‘Damn it, Iggy! This is not a fucking negotiation. Stop being so damn stubborn for once in your life and leave me be.’  
‘Fat chance of that happening.’

The growl that follows is wild, startlingly inhuman. Ignis has to stop himself from scrambling back at the menace contained within. His mind races. It is odd to not feel safe in Gladiolus’s presence; he realises how much he’d taken his good-nature and freely given protection for granted. The idea that Gladio could be a threat has never crossed his mind until this moment, despite the man’s extravagant strength and short temper.  
But the sky is darkening. Thin, crimson clouds soak the last light of the setting sun. Soon, the wilderness outside will be the deadliest peril. Ignis has little choice. He opens his pack and pulls out his notebook. It’s mostly filled with recipes, but he also uses the back pages to make notes on anything important he wishes to keep track of. He skips the reminders he jotted down of the others’ reactions to the meals he improvises - an effort to figure out what they like or not, to learn about their tastes, and archive their favourite dishes. It’s not what he’s looking for. He turns a couple more pages, finds the entry he made when Gladiolus gave them a survival crash course before they all started hunting together.

_‘We’ll always need to know where the nearest haven or outpost is. Spending the night in the wilderness… well, I guess, the shortest way of describing it is “don’t”. But if you really have to, there are a couple of tricks that might save your life.’_

Ignis is thorough and organised. The drawing of the runes he’s made following Gladio’s instructions is clear, easy to reproduce. Hopefully, it’ll be enough. He calls one of his daggers, gets the point to the stone and starts carving.  
Gladiolus shuffles in the darkness behind him, lets out a low, muffled whine. The pain is coming back. Ignis’s frustration wells up at the sound; he wants to walk over and shake him until he stops being so difficult. But he knows exhaustion is starting to get the better of his judgement. He’s made enough bad calls that day not to rush into another one. For now, Gladio’s voice is steady enough and there are more pressing matters at hand.  
The rock is hard but his weapon is imbued with holy magic and makes short work of it. He carries on until the entrance of the cave is covered with linked runes, dug into the stone. That’s the easy part. Now comes the risky one. _Havens are set in places of strong elemental magic. You’ll want to mimic that. Use the element that most opposes your environment, the protection will be stronger for it._ Ignis takes a blizzara from the pack. The seal is not meant to be opened, the flask designed to shatter on impact releasing the elemental spell it contains. But this won’t do here. In such a tight space, an explosion would kill them both. He uses the dagger to break the seal. Slowly. Patiently.

‘Be careful with that.’

Gladio’s voice is serious but some of his usual warmth has seeped back into it.

‘Yes, sir,’ Ignis answers with a small smile.

When the seal finally breaks, a cloud of icy energy lifts from the bottle and covers Ignis’s gloves; but most of it stays undisturbed in the flask. He tips it with a steady hand into the grooves he’s carved in the stone; the runes fill, glowing softly in the twilight. It’s not the impenetrable protection of a haven but it might be enough to keep daemons at bay until dawn.

‘Good work.’  
’Thanks.’  
‘Iggy?’  
‘Yes?’

Ignis tries to use the call as an excuse to move closer but once again he’s denied.

‘Stay where you are. Just… if you have some water to spare, throw it to me, will you? I lost mine earlier and it’s been so damn hot.’

Ignis sighs but obeys. He waits, listening to the sound of Gladiolus opening the bottle and greedily drinking. But he refuses to drop the topic this time. Night has now fallen and he can barely see the glint of Gladio’s eyes anymore. He’s tired and cold, the magic from the blizzara spell chilling the air. His patience is wearing thin.

‘This is getting ridiculous. You have to let me see. I don’t care how bad it looks, Gladio.’  
‘That’s not it. I just…’ Gladiolus hesitates, his usual brashness absent from the words. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’  
‘Hurt me? Why would you hurt me?’  
‘It’s messing with my head. You shouldn’t be here.’  
‘Let me at least have a look.’  
‘No. It gets worse when you get closer.’

Ignis smothers the temptation to argue. Except for the occasional pained grunt and a strangle rustling when he moves, Gladio seems to be holding his own. But those words - _it’s messing with my head -_ are, to say the least, worrying. Pushing is unlikely to help for now. If Gladiolus needs some time, then so be it. By morning, he won’t be able to stay hidden anymore. They can decide what to do then, depending on what the light reveals.

But of course, it is too much to hope for an uncomfortable, freezing night, drowsing against hard stone. It’s three - maybe four - hours later that the Arachne rouses Ignis. The daemon is climbing the sides of the crater with ease, going back and forth, searching. It can probably hear their breathing, feel the heat of their bodies. But the magic has it confused. It’s close though. Way too close for Ignis’s comfort.  
He shuffles back into the darkness of the cave - Gladio’s objections be damned; he’s not staying within striking reach of a daemon. He hesitates but doesn’t call the daggers, magic courses to his fingertips, rich and alive but he stops short of giving it shape. Confirming their presence should be a last resort. There’s little doubt the daemon will sense holy magic manifesting so close to it, runes or no runes.

‘We need to kill it.’

Gladio’s voice is much closer than Ignis expected, low and menacing.

‘It doesn’t know where we are. Just stay put.’  
‘We’d have the element of surprise.’  
‘Not for long. Stop talking.’

Gladiolus relents, but Ignis can feel him fidgeting behind him, his body radiating heat like a furnace. The Arachne is right by the entrance of the cave. They can see its hideous feet stomping the rock, sharp shadows against the starlight. Ever closer. The curved crimson tip of one of the legs brushes against the glowing light of a rune. The daemon jumps back and screams as if it’s been burnt.

Ignis hasn’t got time to react; Gladiolus grabs him by his shirt with preternatural speed and pushes him onto the ground. The Arachne screams again; anger this time, not pain. The air crackles as the monster brings down an electric attack searching for its invisible assailant. White, zigzagging light hits the protection of the runes; sparks fly; the night turns silver and bright.

It lasts but an instant. Long enough for Ignis to see Gladiolus, above him, using the bulk of his body to shield him from the destructive magic; and behind, the skeletal, broken silhouette of a pair of emaciated wings. He hasn’t got time to make sense of it when the Arachne strikes again. It has a target this time. The lightning falls, focused on the protective runes, hitting the cave entrance with devastating might.  
The stone trembles and cries, holding for an instant before shattering into pieces. The mouth of the cave crumbles in a cloud of dust and falling rocks. Ignis covers his head with his arms. Gladiolus grunts, but braces himself and holds fast. It’s over in a few seconds. The darkness around them is impenetrable. But they were far enough in to avoid the brunt of the collapse.

Ignis tries to breathe, coughs in the sandy atmosphere. Blood is dripping from his forehead along his temple. His glasses are miraculously intact. His hand feels for the body hanging over him, the heaving chest, the bunched shoulders and strong arms framing him. He tries again.

‘You’re okay?’  
‘Yeah,’ Gladio answers, obviously short of breath. ‘Could have been worse. But we’re stuck.’  
‘Hopefully, it’ll be enough for daemons to leave us alone. We can dig ourselves out in the morning.’

Silence stretches as they wait for the dust to settle. Breathing becomes gradually easier. They haven’t moved. Eventually, Gladiolus shifts; his hand comes to rest on Ignis’s cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

‘Iggy?’  
‘Hmm?’

His only answer is an hungry mouth against his own, their shared breaths burning hot in the chilled atmosphere. It’s neither the time nor the place for this; and yet, Ignis couldn’t care less. His fingers thread into Gladiolus’s hair, pulling him closer. He parts his lips, lets the demanding tongue in. It’s good. After all they’ve been through that day, it’s a need, a deep-seated craving they don’t want to bring under control. They allow themselves a moment of abandon and forgetfulness. The world and its woes can wait for a bit.  
It’s only when he feels Gladio’s knee parting his legs, his free hand searching for the buttons of his shirt, that Ignis pushes him back. With no success. Gladiolus’s chest is as solid and unyielding as stone under his hand. He twists the grip he has in his hair, hard. That finally gets his attention.

‘Ow… What are you…’  
‘We’re not doing this here. Not like this.’  
‘What?’

There’s a pause, before Gladiolus pulls himself off Ignis with a swear.

‘Shit. Sorry… I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to. I told you, my head’s a mess. Fuck. That sounds awful, such a shitty excuse. But I swear, I didn’t think. I’m sorry, I…’

He sounds too distraught to not be genuine.

‘Hey, don’t sweat it. I asked you to stop, and you did. It’s fine. And the kissing was nice.’  
‘Yeah?’

Ignis would have laughed at how timid Gladiolus sounded, if the whole interaction hadn’t reminded him of what he saw before the light was snuffed out by a rock wall.

‘Yes, it was,’ he says anyway, before adding serious but gentle, ‘Gladio, let me look at you. We don’t have the space to stay away from each other, so there’s no point arguing any more.’

Gladiolus has always been good at reading him, even more so of late. Despite Ignis’s efforts to keep his tone neutral, he immediately knows.

‘You saw…’

His voice is muffled. He sounds like he’s going to be sick.

‘Enough,’ Ignis confirms. There’s no point sugarcoating it.  
‘How are you not running away screaming?’  
‘I have a reputation to maintain. Also, we’re trapped, remember?’  
‘You wouldn’t run even if we weren’t.’  
‘Not from you, no. Can I see?’

He gets a sigh in answer.

‘I guess.’

The torchlight hurts their eyes. Ignis blinks and listens, in case daemons could still see the light seeping through cracks in the rocks. But the silence stays undisturbed. When he looks up, Gladiolus is staring at him, his face uncharacteristically closed off. His eyes are hard, but still burning with an intense orange glow. The skin on his arms and shoulders is torn and mangled. Shredded dark wings hang limp behind him.

Ignis comes closer, fascinated. There’s no room to stand, so he kneels. Gladio sits, back straight, breathing too slow. Ignis’s fingers stroke the feathers on the edge of a wing. Gladiolus shivers silently at the touch. The feathers are clumped together with dirt and blood, broken in places, and large swathes of them are missing.

‘I tore them when they started coming out. I didn’t know what was happening. It just made it worse.’

Ignis stares at Gladiolus’s biceps. Under mud and dried blood, there’s only flesh, free of any adornment.

‘Is it the Scourge? We heard all those stories about people turning into daemons… I never thought they had any truth to them. But now, I don’t know anymore.’

Ignis shakes his head. He doesn’t fully understand what’s going on, but beyond his encompassing knowledge and power of deduction, his true strength is his impeccable instinct, his ability to make a leap and know truths he cannot explain.

‘It’s not.’  
‘How do you know? What else could it be?’

Gladiolus’s hand reaches out, lifts his chin, forcing eye contact. He looks lost and angry.

‘There’s no malicious intent within it,’ Ignis says softly, keeping his voice even. ‘None of the seeping darkness that inhabits daemons.’  
‘Are you sure? I haven’t felt right. Hell, I don’t feel right. I’m on edge, I can’t control it.’  
‘It’s wild and unfettered. And you’re understandably scared and panicking, making it worse. But it’s not the Scourge, Gladio.’

Gladiolus closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep shuddering breath. There’s no relief in it.

‘Okay. Let’s say it’s not. Then, tell me… What’s happening to me, Iggy?’

The despair in Gladiolus’s voice is heart-rending. Ignis takes the hand he’s still holding against his face, presses his lips against the palm, before linking their fingers together.

‘I don’t know. But it’s got to have something to do with your tattoo.’  
‘My tattoo?’  
‘It’s gone,’ Ignis says, pointing at his arm.  
‘Shit, you’re right. I should have known, when fucking feathers started growing. I didn’t stop to think, I just freaked and tore them out.’  
‘It would have been surprising if you didn’t. How did you get that tattoo?’

 

  
*

 

  
_Reaching eighteen years old was a major milestone for Gladiolus. Although he’d been raised for the role for years, it was the day he would officially become the Crown Prince’s Shield, the day he got to embrace his destiny with his head held high and his eyes wide open. In theory, he could decline the role, but no Amicitia had done so for generations and he didn’t intend on breaking the tradition._  
_Besides, he liked Noctis. His friend still had much growing to do but being there with him, every step of the way, would hardly be a hardship. He wasn’t surprised when his father advised him he’d been summoned by His Majesty that morning. He expected, however, to have an audience with Regis in the throne room, but got brought to his office instead._

_The conversation was short-lived. The King asked him if he was going to accept his role as Noctis’s Shield and expressed his gratitude when he said he would be honoured to indeed. The whole exchange was codified, following strict etiquette rules, and mostly happened to make sure the Prince would not get embarrassed at the official ceremony that would take place that evening. It was one of the prerogatives of royalty to be able to ensure their pride was never publicly hurt._  
_The last part of the conversation, however, took an unusual turn._

_‘To mark this joyous occasion, I want for a birthday present to be bestowed upon you.’_  
_‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ Gladiolus answered automatically. The King had never before bothered to give him a gift but one did not argue with the royal fancy._  
_‘Your father tells me you’ve been known to admire some of the hunter tattoos?’_  
_‘I…’_

_Gladiolus hesitated. He might have mentioned a cool one to his dad once or twice, but it wasn’t really something he’d been hung up about. But again, arguing with the King was just poor manners._

_‘Yes, Sire.’_  
_‘Excellent. I’ve been told there is a talented artist from Lestallum visiting the City. Go and see her, get whatever you want to remember this day and your duty, then come back and show it to me.’_  
_‘As Your Majesty wishes. My gratitude is yours as is my strength.’_  
_‘So dedicated. You are truly a son of your father. Now, go and make us proud.’_

_The next day, Gladiolus - now the freshly anointed Shield of His Royal Highness - found himself stared down by a frail old woman with piercing dark eyes that seemed to peer all the way into his soul._

_‘I heard you like hunting,’ she said._

_Gladio wasn’t sure how people kept on hearing things about him, but she wasn’t wrong so he acquiesced._

_‘Sure do.’_  
_‘Hm. Have a look in here, then,’ she said, handing him a thick ledger. ‘I won’t use the exact design but if there’s something you like we can use it as a starting point.’_

_The book was full of stylised beasts and monsters, the drawing intricate and beautiful. There were many. A swirly coeurl, an angry midgardsormr, a graceful spiracorn. But it was the giant bird with spread wings that really caught his attention, a perfect mix of grace and power, truly breathtaking._

_‘That one then,’ the woman said, taking the book from him before he had uttered a sound. ‘Fine. But you’ll have to suffer, time is short. We’ll need to get it done in a week, and considering His Majesty is paying for the work, we can’t go small or he might be insulted.’_

_And that’s how Gladiolus went from vaguely thinking tattoos were cool to having one spanning his whole back and arms in a matter of days._

 

  
*

 

  
’So His Majesty talked you into it?’  
‘Pretty much.’  
‘That doesn’t sound like him.’  
‘I thought it was weird. But I wasn’t going to argue with the King. I guessed it was yet another of his roundabout ways to prove to Noctis he cared about him. He did that often enough. And besides, the end result was pretty awesome, I had no complaints. At the time. Although I’d like to lodge a fucking complaint right now.’  
‘Can’t say I blame you.’

A sudden thought makes Ignis freeze. He’s scared to look, but he has to know. He keeps his distance, but shines his light where the head of the bird lies across Gladio’s breast. He doesn’t know what he expected to find, but it’s a relief to find it dormant. The ink is still under the skin, but the mouth and the eyes of the bird of prey are closed; their confrontational wildness burning bright in Gladiolus’s pupils instead.  
Somewhat relieved, Ignis inspects Gladio’s back more closely. The left wing is completely out, but the right one is still bent and held into the muscles of his lower back, feathers fused into the skin, continuous with precise ink lines. He follows them with his fingertips. Faint orange light glows for an instant before the ink vanishes and feathers come into existence, freeing the wing fully. The skin left behind is perfect, unblemished, a far cry from the raw wounds that cover every other inch of Gladio’s back and arms.

‘I think it’s all out now. You should try taking a potion again, it’ll probably help your skin heal.’  
‘I guess it can’t hurt to try.’

Thankfully, this time, the healing brew seems to do its work. Gladiolus sighs and his shoulders sag noticeably, the only sign of how much pain he must have been in.

‘Better?’  
‘Much. Thanks, Iggy.’  
‘I’ve done little.’  
‘You’ve done plenty. Coming after me for one.’  
‘You would have done the same.’  
‘It still matters,’ Gladio says softly, before adding with forced light-heartedness, ‘so what does your genial brain make of my predicament?’  
‘Don’t be cynical, it doesn’t suit you.’  
‘You’re the last person who should give that advice.’  
‘Untrue,’ Ignis retorts with a smirk, ‘ _I_ can pull it off.’  
‘The worst part is you’re probably right.’  
‘Of course, I am.’  
‘But I meant what I said… Any theory? I’ll take anything that even vaguely makes sense at this point.’

Ignis sits back on his heels. He takes out his handkerchief, tries to sort his jumbled thoughts while scrubbing the dust off his face. The cut on his forehead has finally stopped bleeding. Gentle fingers tilt his head.

‘You’re hurt.’  
‘It’s nothing, just a scratch.’

Gladiolus takes the handkerchief from him, uses some water to clean the blood. Ignis lets him, talking slowly as he works.

‘We know it’s linked to your tattoo, and I think it’s fair to say it must have something to do with Noctis, considering the King made sure you got it done and it only started manifesting after His Majesty passed.’  
‘But what for? What’s the point?’

Ignis hesitates.

‘I don’t know but it has to confer some advantage. It’d make no sense, otherwise.’  
‘Whether it does or not, I can’t very well go around looking like that. We’re going to have to get rid of it.’  
‘How do you propose we do that?’  
‘Those daggers of yours are sharp. They’ll do.’  
‘Gladio, I’m not cutting off your limbs. Whether they’re newly acquired or not.’  
‘What then?’  
‘We’ll find a doctor, if we decide this is what we must do. Besides…’  
‘Besides?’  
‘We don’t know that it’s permanent.’

Again, Ignis knows this to be the truth without being able to quite explain why.

‘What? You think they’re just going to suddenly disappear?’  
‘They might since they’re obviously magical. They came out, there’s no reason they can’t get back in.’  
‘You mean this whole thing could happen again?’

Gladiolus’s hand drops back in his lap. He’s deathly pale, like a man who believes he’s survived torture only to be told his tormenter is back from their lunch break. It’s hard to watch, and Ignis doesn’t think. He leans in, takes his face in his hand and kisses him softly. He thinks back to the orange glow that brought the last feathers into existence.

‘Maybe not. Maybe if you don’t fight it, it won’t be so bad.’  
‘I can’t do this again.’

The raw vulnerability in Gladio’s baritone is out of place. Ignis doesn’t know what to say, so he draws him close. Gladiolus doesn’t resist, hides his face in the crook of his neck. Ignis feels the sharp intake of breath - almost a sob - he lets out. Hands are on his sides, pulling him closer until he’s straddling Gladio’s lap. They stay like this, connected and entwined. The press of their bodies dims the light of the torch he’s got pinned to his jacket. He can only see shadows as he strokes Gladiolus’s hair. Wings flutter in the darkness with the broken rhythm of his breathing.  
Ignis waits until he starts to calm down, until the vice-like hold Gladiolus has on him relaxes just a touch, to speak again.

‘Let’s not be rash. We’ll find Noct tomorrow and decide what to do then.’

Gladio nods, leans back just a touch. Light floods the cavern.

‘Okay. Whatever you say.’  
‘We should try to get some sleep.’

They both know Ignis is right but they can’t bring themselves to move. It’s not long before the space between them is gone again, the kisses slow, tender. Gladio’s hands drift across Ignis’s back, grip his thighs, cup his jaw. Until it’s too much, until he starts losing control again, and he puts them palm-down on the ground. Ignis slows down then, waiting for the tension recedes just enough. They’re only working on Gladiolus’s self-control, he thinks, amused. Maybe it’s not all bad, after all.

 

  
*

 

  
They make their way out of the cave and through the ravines without much difficulty the next morning. Gladiolus seems to have recovered from his ordeal - physically at least. If anything, his strength and stamina are more impressive than usual. But it’s not until they meet an angry dualhorn and Gladio makes it flee by _growling_ at it of all things that Ignis truly understands how fierce the transformation has made him. He can only imagine what it would look like in a fight.  
And yet, the way it’s fraying Gladiolus’s nerves is hardly safe or smart. The more time passes, the more he’s convinced this is supposed to be a crisis response, not a lasting one. If he’s right, then he can guess what Gladio needs.

They find the road and with it some welcome signal.

‘Ignis!’

The relief in Noctis’s voice makes him smile.

‘Hey, Noct. How’s the head?’  
’Never mind my head. Where were you? Is Gladio with you?’  
’We’re both okay. Safe, but in need of a ride. Where are you right now?’  
‘At the Prairie Outpost with Cor and Monica, and a bunch of hunters. We were putting together a search party.’  
‘We appreciate the gesture, but it’s hardly necessary. Thank them for us. Then please come and pick us up. Alone, if you will.’  
‘Alone?’  
‘Bring Prompto. No-one else.’  
‘What’s going on?’  
‘I’ll explain. Just do as I ask for now.’  
‘Sure. But the Marshal wants to talk to you first.’

Convincing Cor to let Noct and Prompto go on alone takes all of Ignis’s diplomatic skills but they’re only a stone’s throw away from the outpost and he eventually manages to argue their case. That’s the easy part.

Gladiolus sits on a rock a few meters from the road to avoid frightening the local travellers, Ignis stands by the asphalt to wave Noct down. He doesn’t have to wait long but Prompto is at the wheel. They both jump out as soon as the car stops.

‘He won’t let me drive,’ Noctis says sullenly.  
‘You still weren’t making sense at breakfast, that was two hours ago, Noct.’  
‘Prompto seems to have a point.’  
‘I also stopped him from rushing after you when we heard the chocobos had come back alone last night. He wanted to go look for you in the dark.’

Prompto’s tone is apologetic, despite obviously knowing he’d been right.

‘Thank you, Prompto. That’s exactly why I wanted you to stay with our hot-headed Highness. I doubt he’d have listened to anyone else.’  
‘I don’t know if you can say he listened. He wasn’t able to stay upright for more than twenty seconds at a time. It helped.’  
‘Whatever,’ Noct says. ‘See if I come get any of you next time you’re in trouble. And where’s Gladio?’  
‘Here.’

They turn around. Prompto’s deer-in-the-headlights look is expected. Noct’s surprise is short-lived, replaced almost immediately by a cautious but unreadable frown.

‘What the hell…’  
‘That’s not how you should greet the Shield who saved your life only yesterday, Noct,’ Ignis says softly.

He watches as Gladiolus falls to his knees in front of his King and bows his head.

‘My blade and my life are your Shield,’ he says, echoing the swearing words of a ceremony long past.

Noctis’s expression doesn’t change. But he shows no hesitation. He puts his hand on Gladio’s head.

‘Your service honours us,’ he says slowly.

The shredded wings glow a soft orange and vanish in pinpricks of light that stay suspended in the air for an ephemeral instant. Inked lines are back under Gladio’s skin. Ignis was right. The Shield needed to know the King was safe before dropping his guard enough to tame the magic that inhabited him.  
It doesn’t give them many answers, but it still confirms his suspicion. The transformation had most likely been brought on by their shared grief and powerlessness. Gladio must have been reaching out for confidence and power he’d been doubting for the first time. The magic had answered his call, and he’d tried to push it back down while calling for it even more intensely the more panicked he got. It was a wonder such powerful magic hadn’t done more damage.

 

  
*

 

  
They go back to Hammerhead, spend a quiet day discussing what happened in hushed voices. The next day, Noctis decides they should leave for Duscae. It’s a nice change of pace. The countryside pleasantly green and humid, teeming with wildlife. A week passes fishing, hunting, chasing down frogs on a strange errand. It’s a welcome respite.

It’s another lovely morning under the tent when Ignis opens his eyes. He stares for a while, his drowsy brain trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. There’s no urgency, no sense of danger. The tent canvas is gone, replaced by a half-dome of dark velvet, outlined in golden light. He lifts a hand, brushes it with his fingertips. It’s so very soft. There’s a quiet laugh near him and Ignis turns his head to find Gladiolus watching him.

‘That actually feels pretty nice.’

Ignis brings his attention back to the black wing stretched out to protect him from the glare of the morning sun coming through the tent door. It looks perfect, all the flaws and breaks gone. It’s beautiful.

‘You were right,’ Gladiolus says.  
‘Of course, I was,’ Ignis answers automatically. ‘What about?’  
‘If I don’t fight it, it doesn’t really hurt. It just happens.’

Ignis hums softly in answer, strokes the feathers gently again. It’s fascinating; as is Gladio’s sigh and the way he bites his lips in answer. The wings might be magical, but they’re definitely sensitive.

‘I’d theorised it was a response to danger though.’  
‘Mostly. But I think it works with any rousing emotion. If I let it.’  
‘And what was so rousing this fine morning?’  
‘Do I need to say it?’  
‘You most certainly do.’  
‘Fine. You’re a damn pretty sight when you’re asleep. It’s nice to see you relaxed for a change.’

Ignis huffs, but he pulls Gladio down to kiss him. Noct is snoring softly somewhere behind the curtain of black feathers. Prompto is on the last guard outside. They’re most certainly going to get caught but he can’t bring himself to care. This is good. So good. And he doesn’t want to hide it anymore.  
Gladiolus’s hand pushes his shirt up, just enough that it can splay over his stomach, brush along his side. Fuck. They can’t take this any further, but by the Six, does Ignis want to. Also he’s going to have to wait a while before he can get up and he suspects he’s not the only one.

There’s a soft gasp behind them. Ignis opens his eyes and he can see half of Prompto’s face, over Gladio’s shoulder, framed by the tent door. His hair is loose, free from gel, making him look even younger. He’s staring at them and blinks slowly, before blushing and running away. No going back now. Gladiolus smiles in the kiss, amused, obviously aware they’ve had an audience. His free hand closes around Ignis’s neck to tilt his head and force him to focus on what they’re doing again. He doesn’t need much convincing. They can have this, for a while longer.

In two days, they’re in Lestallum. They will allow themselves a real break; come to grips with the new knowledge they have gathered on their way; and finally - Ignis hopes - get some well-deserved privacy. He intends to make the most of it.

 

  
*

 

 

They stop at a haven, six hours out of the city, for a last night under the stars. There is a stream nearby and the opportunity to fish wins over Noctis’s dislike of camping. They have wonderful fresh trout for dinner. Ignis takes his gloves off - fish smell lingers - and prepares them with honed skills. He crushes wild garlic and kettier ginger in a skillet on the camping grill, waiting for the delicate smell to permeate the camp, before adding the flour-coated fillets. They sizzle happily in the pan.

It’ll be a while before they’re ready. Ignis stares at the creek downhill. Noctis is still throwing his line into the darkening waters. The wind brings the cheery tones of Prompto’s voice up to the camp, words lost but bright enthusiasm remaining. The atmosphere is peaceful.

‘Iggy! Watch it!’

Ignis freezes as Gladiolus jumps from the chair he’s been reading his book in and yanks his arm away. Only then does he realise his palm has been resting on the red-hot metallic grill. It feels pleasantly warm.

‘What in Ifrit’s hell…’

He examines his skin, perplexed. There’s no damage, not even a mark or a flush. Gladiolus is staring at him, tense and confused. Ignis is not feeling much different. So he does the only thing that makes sense, turns towards the campfire and plunges his hand in the flames. They split around his fingers, course up his arm. When he pulls back, golden fire still engulfs his limb. It doesn’t hurt, but burns brighter when Ignis wishes it to. A thought and it vanishes into the aether. Another and it’s back, bursting out of thin air, as intense and hot as he wants it to be. The fire is playful, eager, yet beautifully submissive to his will.

‘Fuck,’ Gladio whispers. ‘What’s going on?’  
‘It’s actually starting to make sense,’ Ignis says, words falling from his lips before he fully understands why. ‘Do you remember the old prophecy? Not the painted one. The one in the old book in the glass case at the Royal Library?’  
‘Vaguely. How did it go?’  
‘ _The King walks tall amongst echoing shadows, his beloved heart filled with healing light_. I’ve always thought that was a reference to the Oracle.’  
‘To Lady Lunafreya?’  
‘If it applies, then yes.’  
‘I remember the next line. _His indomitable strength wild as beast’s_.’  
‘Reminds you of anyone?’  
‘You mean to say?’  
‘It fits. And then, _his argute mind ablaze with clear flames_.’  
‘Shit. Do you really believe it means Noct and us?’  
‘I’m starting to.’

Facts fall like tiles in Ignis’s mind. If words have power, then names have even more so. He always thought it was odd for Gladiolus to be named after a graceful, frail flower, but what if they’d known from the moment he was born? What if they’d tried to balance the raw, wild power that inhabited him? The one they planned on letting him tap into in a way no other man could.

And what about him? The cold, analytical, applied mind who’s been given a name that pulls him towards chaos and impulsiveness. There’s a memory there he doesn’t like to think about because he’s never been able to make sense of it. But now, it’s clear as dew.

 

  
*

 

  
_His first memory of his mother was also his last. He was four, maybe five years old._

_‘You’ll have to be good, my darling Stupeo,’ she said. ‘I know you’ll make your dad and me really proud.’_

_She was on her knees in front of him and hugged him fiercely before letting the men in uniforms take him away. He didn’t remember the journey to the capital city._

_When he arrived, he was put in a dormitory with other children, all uprooted from the life they’d known before. They’d been sent to class, taught all sorts of things for a few weeks. Then there’d been more tests. Like the ones he had to go through at home. Confusing questions to answer, hard puzzles to solve, faulty reasoning to critique. He’d been told he did well. He thought maybe he’d get to go home if he did._

_One day, they took him for yet another test. But this one was different. The room was small. There was an old man in a black uniform sitting cross-legged behind a low table._

_‘Sit, boy,’ he said, before pointing at the three flasks that were lying in cushioned cases on the tabletop. ‘Choose one.’_  
_‘What do they do?’_  
_‘Don’t think. Just choose one.’_

_This was an odd injunction. He’d been told to ‘think carefully’ several times a day since he first arrived. The flasks all looked the same, dark opaque green glass containers that perfectly hid their contents. But the one to the far right was alive. He couldn’t explain why. He could feel the power swirling within._

_‘This one,’ he said._  
_‘This one, eh? Fine.’_

_The man put the bottle in his hands on top of his lap._

_‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘ It will hurt you if you break it.’_

_Stupeo nodded seriously._

_‘You’re going to sit here for a while. I just want you to be still and hold it.’_

_This was easy. He could do that._

_He waited a long time. He was bored, but he knew he shouldn’t complain. He’d promised his mum he’d be good. Besides, he’d been chosen. He was one of the lucky ones. Or so he’d been told. Repeatedly._  
_When the man tried to take the flask back, he touched it, pulled his hand away and shook it with a hiss. He came back with a piece of cloth and put the flask back on the table, before calling an attendant._

_‘Take that boy back,’ he said. ‘Make sure he’s safe. I need to talk to His Majesty.’_

_A couple of days later, the man came back to see him._

_‘You’re very lucky, boy,’ he said._

_Stupeo nodded. He knew this already._

_‘You’ve been assigned to His Highness’, Prince Noctis’s, House. Your task will be to help with anything he might require. You should be proud and honoured.’_  
_‘Yes, sir,’ he said, since it was expected._  
_‘Now, boy, I want you to listen carefully. To honour your service, the Royal House has decided to bestow a new name upon you. From now on, you will not be Stupeo anymore. You will be Ignis. Ignis Scientia.’_  
_‘Ignis?’_  
_‘That’s right.’_  
_‘Yes, sir,’ Ignis said._

 

  
*

Ignis remembers the prophecy, but for the first time, the closing lines sound like a warning rather than a fatalist foretelling.

_The King walks tall amongst echoing shadows  
His beloved heart filled with healing light  
His indomitable strength wild as beast’s  
His argute mind ablaze with clear flames  
Seeking the lost on a path to untold powers  
Slumber will pass and night will be no more._

_Dawn will uncover the cruel will of the Gods,_  
_Forged in man’s resignation and surrender._

Ignis looks up. His eyes meet with Gladio’s steady, calm gaze. Noctis and Prompto are standing on the edge of the haven, called back to the mount by the delicious smell rising from the grill. They don’t understand yet, but they’re watching, waiting for Ignis to speak. Without fully understanding why, defiance burns in his chest. No matter what’s to come, if they have to, the four of them will take the fight to the Gods themselves. Newfound power and resilience inhabit them - more might yet come. It’s neither a curse nor a gift, only an opportunity. He knows then. They will not compromise. Together, they will tell their own story; prophecy and Scourge be damned.

 


End file.
